


Rust or Gold

by pjlover666



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: AU, Gen, M/M, noble 'verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:30:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pjlover666/pseuds/pjlover666
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prowl and Jazz struggle to survive in a harsh and cold world as their sparks find reprieve in each other. But the more you get closer to something, the more it'll hurt when it's taken away from you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friend

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this months ago but finally decided to post it.
> 
> AU noble 'verse. Hope you like :) It's not beta'd and I apologize for the possible typos.
> 
> Transformers doesn't belong to me.

A noise startled Jazz from his task of cleaning the floor. He looked around, trying to determine where the source of the sound came before he heard shifting in the kitchen. It was late, there weren't supposed to be any mechs there at this time of the night. The only reason why Jazz was even awake right now was due to his punishment.

Grateful to have a reason to straighten his back, Jazz dropped the rag and carefully peaked around the corner. He was a small youngling and that enabled him to be mostly undetected sneaking around the house when mischievous serge took over.

As he looked into the dim room, he saw another youngling there, trembling and making distressed noises because of the broken cube on the floor, the pink energon splattered all over the place. Jazz had never seen him before, he probably was newly bought and for a moment, he couldn't help but pity his age-mate for the Lord's house he got stuck in. Where they both were stuck in.

His sensitive hearing, a glitch due to the cheap material his frame was made of, told Jazz that they would have company soon. He saw as the door-wings of the other youngling (door-wings?! Fascinating!) shot straight up and he looked at the door. Jazz jumped when young golden optics locked with his blue visor. The winged youngling took an instinctive step beck and slipped on the spilled energon, falling on his aft.

Jazz quickly made his way towards the youngling on the ground, peaking curiously at him, noting their frame differences and how he still hadn't stopped trembling. Poor thing.

"Hey," Jazz whispered, "Ya have t'hide."

The golden optics brightened as they regarded the small youngling before him, "…N-no, the energon…!"

Jazz shook his head and reached to pull him up, "Yer new here. Ya don't want this to be yer first impression on them."

"But—"

Jazz placed a hand on the youngling's mouth, silencing him, "Ah'll fix it, jus' hide, kay?" He didn't even realize he was dragging the youngling to a cupboard before he actually opened it. Jazz made a shushing sound before he quietly closed the doors, the frightened optics following his every move through the small gap.

Jazz remembered when he was newly bought, how scary everything and everyone was so he understood perfectly. Back then, he could have really used the help.

Ex-venting, preparing himself for what was to come, Jazz patiently waited as the door to the kitchen opened and one of their masters walked in, optics instantly narrowing once they spotted the tiny youngling and spilled energon.

He would probably get a beating and the energon would be taken out of his refueling, so he'll go a couple of nights hungry, but it was better than to make a wrong first impression – they were everything in this house. Turning off his optics, Jazz felt the first hit of the many to come.

0000

His vents hiccupped.

Jazz really tried to be strong and brave. He really did, but it was just so hard sometimes. Lying on the crummy berth with his back to the world in the general barracks, where all the servants of the house rested, Jazz tried and failed to stop his little cries. His helm and left hand really hurt – actually, everything hurt. And he was so hungry.

Clicking distressed, he rubbed at his optics under the visor that just wouldn't stop crying, wanting the tears gone. Jazz wanted the proof of his weakness away. He felt someone gently tap at his shoulder and Jazz flinched, turning his teared up face towards the new youngling in the house.

"…What?" Jazz rasped after a moment of silence when the other didn't speak, rubbing at his optics more persistently.

The youngling looked at him worriedly, his door-wings trembling on his back. "Are… you okay?"

It was a stupid question and Jazz wanted to say just that in the current mood that he was in. But instead the youngling just sighed sadly and looked his companion over, "What's yer name?"

The winged youngling blinked, unsure as Jazz didn't answer his original question, "…Prowl." He lifted his hands by instinct to his chest and Jazz noticed that they were holding a small cube of energon. His tanks growled, starving.

"Ah'm Jazz." He sat up on the berth that seemed like it would fall apart any moment. The masters didn't want to waste an entire berth for someone as small as him so some of the kinder servants were generous enough to make him and impromptu berth (that were just a huge pile of old rags and pillows). "Nice to meet'cha."

Prowl looked at him sadly. It broke Jazz's spark seeing that look on someone else, but in his reality they all, himself included, wore it.

"Thank you for helping me." The words were surprise enough for Jazz, but what really shocked the tiny youngling was the fact that Prowl was offering him the cube. Here, were each drop of fuel was selfishly stored and protected.

"Prowl…" It took everything out of Jazz to not simply reach out and take the cube, gulping down its contents. His tanks growled again.

"I want you to have it." Prowl said very quietly as Jazz's surprised optics studied him, "It's because of me that they hurt you…"

Jazz looked at him sadly. He didn't want to tell Prowl that there would be an orn when they will raise their hand against him as well, and there would be nothing Jazz can do about it. Although the visored youngling suspected they already have. But not now, he wouldn't think about this now. Not when this youngling was in a desperate need of a friend. And so was Jazz.

Jazz scooted to the side on the small berth, making room for Prowl and gently patted the surface, inviting. The bigger youngling was unsure for a moment before he climbed up next to Jazz, able to see his dents and cracks in the armor more clearly up this close.

"I'm really sorry."

"Shush, it's nothin'." Jazz said quietly. After all, he's had worse but refused to say that out loud.

"I mean it." Prowl said and handed him the energon cube, "Take it."

Jazz licked his lips, hungry, and before he could stop himself he took the cube, bringing it so fast to his lips and drinking, that he actually chocked on it.

Concerned, Prowl instinctively placed a hand on his back but Jazz flinched and Prowl pulled away. Jazz quickly regained his composure and gave him the first grin of the night, "S'alright, wasn't being too careful there."

"Slowly." Prowl said very quietly.

Jazz did as told, taking the next few sips slower, relishing in the feeling of the fuel getting absorbed in his body. When he reached the half mark, he handed it back to Prowl with a gentle smile.

"Here," Jazz said, "You'll need it too." Prowl was probably hungry as well.

Unsure, but under Jazz's insistence, Prowl took the small cube back and drank it. They stood there in silence for what seemed like a long time. Until Jazz broke it by taking Prowl's right hand, examining it. Prowl flinched and pulled it back.

"Yer a new slave, ain't ya?" Jazz asked, no accusation or judgment in his voice.

Slowly, Prowl nodded and gave his hand back. Jazz looked it over and realized that Prowl is even more new to the slave world then he was, which was strange considering that the winged youngling seemed older.

"And you?" Prowl asked as gentle optics looked the tiny Jazz over again.

Jazz gave him a smirk that actually seemed pained as he handed him his own right hand. He watched as Prowl's optics widened at the many trade symbols there.

"...Eight? You've been sold eight times?" Prowl failed to hide the horror and fear in his voice, looking each different symbol over as they represented a House Jazz had belonged to.

Jazz shrugged. "Sparklin's an' younglin's are cheap an' a good bargain. They need a lot less energon than a fully grown mech."

"Seems logical." Prowl murmured, running his small white fingers over the glyphs. He remembered how much it hurt to have his only glyph imprinted, the sting of the hot metal….to have this done eight times… "You're very strange." He blurted out.

Jazz cocked his helm to the side, but a small honest smile was tugging his lips. He was amused, "Ah'm gonna take that as a compliment, Prowler."

Prowl blinked a couple of times, confused, "My name is Prowl, not Prowler."

"Ah know. That's yer nickname." Jazz declared, proud.

Instead of arguing, Prowl accepted this oddity of the other youngling. He looked at the big dent on Jazz's helm and gestured to it, "Does it hurt?"

Jazz lifted a hand to touch it, "Not really. Wha' hurts is mah left hand though." He showed the injured wrist, where one of the masters had pulled him too forcefully.

Out of pure youngling curiosity, Prowl reached out with a hand to run his little fingers over the wrist, and had Jazz instantly clicking in pain, cradling the hand to his chest. Prowl's wings shot up in worry and Jazz saw them tremble again.

"It'll be fine in a few orns." Jazz reassured but the other youngling didn't seem to believe him. The wings did not stop trembling. "Hey, Ah know it looks horrible but this place ain't so bad. We have ol' Ironhide and Chromia here with us."

"The bonded couple?" Prowl asked after a while.

"Yup," Jazz nodded, "And then there's this really nice medic that visits us from time to time and fixes us up! He's called Ratchet, ya might meet him next time he comes!"

Prowl gave the barest of smiles, the very first one Jazz saw on him.

"So what happened to ya?" Jazz asked quietly, wondering if Prowl would share this with him, "How did ya end up on th' slave market. There ain't no going back once you're up there with dat thin' branded on yer arm."

Prowl stared at the opposite wall for a long time. So long, that Jazz believed he wouldn't answer him, but the last moment, the Praxian spoke:

"I got lost from my creators. Then some mechs out of nowhere caught me. That was three months ago."

"Where were ya in the mean time?" Jazz found himself curious, leaning tiredly back on the rags, injured hand placed gingerly over his chest.

"The Market." Prowl answered simply and Jazz winced. No wonder this youngling was so spooked out of his mind. The Market was a scary place, for reasons which Jazz didn't want to contemplate.

"You have so many trade symbols." Prowl looked at them again, "H-how…?"

"Hey… hey." Jazz spoke gently, "Ah know it seems scary but… but once ya get used to it… it hurts less, y'know?"

"What happened to your creators?" The question had urgency in it, desperate optics looking at his small visor.

"Don't know." Jazz murmured, "Ah was sold pretty early. Barely remember them."

"Oh."

It had quieted down in the room around them. The tired and even exhausted servants, half of them under fueled, where all recharging in their berths, forgetting their troubles for the few blissful joors of sleep. Both younglings were nearly in recharge themselves, spent from the events of the orn.

Maybe it was the dull ache that was slowly passing away, or some sort of noise that prompted Jazz's visor to book up again and he nudged the youngling next to him.

"Hey Prowler…?"

"What?" Of course Prowl was a light sleeper. They all were.

"Wanna tell ya a secret? It really helps me in bad orns to think 'bout it – makes me feel… happy."

"What is it?" Prowl whispered, turning his helm to look at Jazz.

"Some orn… Ah'm gonna escape y'know? Ah really am. An' Ah'm gonna remove each an' every symbol from mah arm."

The Praxian just stared at the strange little youngling next to him. So small, so fragile… yet, it had this power of life that made Jazz seem _big_.

"I hope so, Jazz."

It made him seem alive.

"Ah know so. We can escape together if ya want?"

And strong. Stronger than Prowl thought he was.

"I… hope so." Prowl whispered and watched as his companion drifted off to sleep, oblivious to the power his words held.

And maybe _, just maybe_ , Jazz was strong enough to change their fate.


	2. To Protect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to silberstreif who looked this over for me! ^^

"Give it back!"

"Come and get it cry-baby!"

"I said _give it back!"_

Jazz was startled by the light doze of recharge from all the noise. He looked around, yet the room was still empty. But the shouting didn't stop and he realized it was coming from outside. Jazz made his way to the window, climbing on a chair and grasped the cold bars, peering in the back court yard of the house, where a small energon river passed through. He frowned at what he saw.

There was a crowd of younglings down there, all of them surrounding a well known pair - Broka and Prowl. And Prowl looked far from happy, as he tried to get something back from the other youngling. Jazz had seen enough; he jumped from the chair and raced down the hallways, intend on reaching Prowl as fast as possible.

Outside nothing much had changed:

"Give it back or—"

"Or what?" A bigger youngling, named Broka lifted the half full cube of energon way up out of Prowl's reach. The little Praxian's wings were quivering up and down, not clear whether they wanted to show the child's sadness at being teased or the unnatural anger he felt behind that fact.

"C'mon cry-baby! Come and get—" Broka's taunt was cut short as a rock collided hard to his helm with surprising accuracy.

"Now that ain't nice Broka. Ya shouldn't tease the young." Jazz smirked, causally throwing another rock in his hand, ready to attack again if needed. Inside he was relieved that he had come in time, before worse had happened.

"Jazz—" Prowl turned to look worriedly at his friend that was even smaller than him! If those bullies caught him-!

"Trash!" Broke growled, sitting up and holding his dented helm, "I should rip that visor of yours out!"

Jazz didn't seem too worried by the brutal threat: "You'll have to catch me first. And we all know ya can't. Didn't work out last time." He walked next to Prowl, brushing discreetly a sensor wing in their own personal greeting (Jazz even came up with a little dance routine that Prowl didn't want any part of.)

"You'll pay for this." The youngling growled. "The two of you won't see energon for orns because of this!"

Prowl's wings drooped even more as worry crept in his spark. And he would've stepped behind Jazz in reflex to shield himself, but he didn't need to. The smaller youngling, that barely reached Prowl's shoulders, stepped before Prowl, clearly unintimidated. With a cool visor Jazz stared at his opponent. Then, words that didn't belong in the mouth of a youngling so young echoed across the quiet grounds:

"You're such an idiot, Broka," Jazz said calmly, "Isn't the abuse we get every orn enough, that you have to seek out more?" He felt someone grasp his left hand and looked down, seeing Prowl's white hand over his black one. Jazz squeezed back. "Give him back the energon. You've had your fun for the orn."

"Jazz, it's okay." Prowl whispered in his audio, "Please, I don't want to get you in trouble…"

"Hush." Jazz didn't look away from Broka, "So?"

Broka glared as more younglings that had seen the commotion came to the back yard. He gazed back at the river, where a small bridge stood with a beautiful railing that the mistress of the house had custom-made. It was thin and uneven.

"I'll give it back if you can go to the other side of the river, walking on the railing, using only your pedes."

As expected, murmurs started in the small crowd of younglings and sparklings around them. It was forbidden to walk to the other side. They all knew it. Which is why Broka made that challenge.

Prowl resigned himself to an orn without fuel, but the surprisingly strong grip of Jazz on his hand made him look down at his shorter companion in confusion.

"Is that all?" Jazz's visor glinted. It was _that_ look that made him stand out from the other younglings. They were all dull and gray, defeated and exhausted, but Jazz… Jazz was bright and colorful and filled with life. And Prowl would be damned, if Jazz got hurt because of him!

"Jazz, no!" Prowl hissed in his audio, "It's not worth it."

"Don't worry Prowler, I can handle this!"

Prowl suddenly tugged harder, enough to make Jazz turn and they were face to face, "If you fall, you will drown." Prowl whispered so only Jazz could hear him, "And even if you make it to the other side, if you get caught, the punishment will be severe… Please, for half a cube of energon, it's _not_ worth it!"

Younglings shouldn't say such things. They shouldn't have to decide if getting whipped is worth over a cube of energon. But there was no place for younglings here. Yes, they were in the frames of such, but the sparks that beat wildly with life in their small little chests were mature. They had grown up long before their time. They were adults, and perhaps, Jazz was the most adult of them all despite his carefree demeanor.

"I won't get caught!" Jazz tried to reassure him, "Trust me Prowler."

Prowl lowered his helm so that his little chevron rested on Jazz's forehead. "I trust you. It's them that I don't trust."

"It's goin' to be okay." Jazz whispered with a reassuring smile and Prowl briefly wondered where did he get the strength to smile.

"If your mushy moment is over, we're all waiting." Broka motioned at the bridge.

Helm high, Jazz walked next to the bully and stopped, "If Ah win, you will stop teasing Prowler." His optics narrowed, "Or else."

"Or else what?" Broka smirked.

Jazz shrugged, "That's for me to know and for you to find out." They entered in a stare-off, and the bigger bully suddenly felt uneasy at how calm the other youngling looked.

"Would you just do it already!"

Prowl's little wings were trembling in their nervousness for Jazz. He watched him gracefully climb up the railing and used his hands as leverage. He took a step forward. Then another. Slowly but surely, Jazz made his way. Prowl let a shaky breath. Jazz passed the middle. Hope kindled in his spark. Jazz would actually do it!

However it was short lived as a rock was thrown at Jazz. Luckily, the aim was off so it grazed his audio horn, making Jazz hiss in pain and waver dangerously. He turned back and yelled at Broka, "That's cheatin'!"

"You never said anything about rules!" The youngling yelled as another rock was thrown, this time hitting Jazz in the shoulder, nearly tipping him over. But before a third rock could be thrown, Broka found himself tackled to the ground.

Jazz could only blink in surprise along with the rest as Prowl, calm, _sweet, Prowl_ growled and pinned the bigger frame of Broka. He looked up at Jazz and yelled, "Finish it!"

Smirking, Jazz nodded and resumed his walking.

However, Broka chose that moment to start wailing and yelling, wrestling Prowl. At the sudden increase of volume all of the other younglings scattered. It was never a good thing to get caught up in the middle of a brawl. And sure enough, disaster came.

"What the frag is going on here?!"

Jazz turned just in time to see a huge bulky guard mech lift Prowl from Broka and throw him away. A couple of _meters_ away. Prowl cried out as he landed on his wings.

"Prowler!" Jazz yelled in worry.

"You!" The guard growled, noticing Jazz on the railing.

All of the commotion was too much for Jazz and the sudden below of the guard was enough to make Jazz loose his balance entirely. He fell with a splash in the river.

Panic. It was all Jazz could do. He felt the water sip into his ventilation system, felt how his engine started to choke. He wiggled, gasped for air that wasn't there. It was no use. He cried for help, voice silent and lost under all the water. And for a brief second, the treacherous thought of _'what's the point?'_ crossed his mind. He stopped struggling and felt himself sink.

What _was_ the point? Existence was hell. There was nothing for him in this life. The world wouldn't miss one stupid youngling if he drowned this orn, would it? Yet, just as his vision was nearly blurred entirely, an image of a little Praxian appeared.

Prowl. He would leave Prowler all alone. He was all that Prowl had left. And… Prowl was all that Jazz had left as well.

Sudden vertigo stopped his train of thoughts. Jazz was above the water; someone was holding him by his ankle upside-down. A rather hard smack to his back had him cough and open his vents so that all of the water got expelled. He was still coughing when the grumbling guard plopped him like a sack of rocks next to Prowl.

Little trembling servos went to his shoulders as Prowl's worried gaze settled on him. Both of them looked at the same time back at the house, where the Lord's eldest and far most cruel creation emerged.

"A-Ah'm…sorry." Jazz said, his ventilations taking in the much needed air properly. He leaned heavily on Prowl and felt the other youngling pull him closer, wings spread behind them in an instinctive move to protect them.

"What will he do to us?" Prowl whispered. His fear was so obvious that Jazz wanted to cry and shield him from what's to come.

"Depends what mood he's in." Jazz whispered back and couldn't help but press even closer to Prowl, burying his helm in the crook of the other's neck, "Best case: we don't fuel for a couple of orns. Worst case…" Jazz didn't want to think of all the worst things they could do to them.

Prowl whimpered and Jazz couldn't help but echo it. No matter how mature they were at mind, they were younglings still. And nothing would change that.

Yet, the fact that they were younglings meant nothing in this house.


	3. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I'm sorry for the delay. I had quite a bit written in this 'verse that I've grown to love quite a lot. However, my hard disk decided to die on my and with it went nearly all of my stories... yeah, bummer. After that I was quite demotivated to restart this story again, but the world became bigger than expected and it seemed like a waste to just leave it like that. So here you go, a new chapter! Please tell me what you think! Enjoy ^^

Jazz held back a wince as he eased some of his weigh on his still healing leg by shifting on his other, and kept dutifully cleaning the silver pantry with a little cloth until they sparkled. As a youngling, he was on light duty, but it all depended what _'light'_ actually meant.

The only reason Jazz was cleaning the silverware was because the house medic had explicitly told them that either Jazz stood off his legs for the next few weeks, or they risked leaving him a cripple. And of course, he was of much less worth if that were to happen.

So that meant Jazz had the lightest duties, that usually the slave sparklings did. Like cleaning the silverware until one could see their reflection in it.

Their punishment had been bad, but it could have been worse. A lot worse…. Jazz shuddered at the thought and nearly dropped the spoon he was cleaning before moving on to another. A servant walked in and smiled at him as he placed a huge tray of goodies on the table, where the rest of the food stood.

Tonight would be held the monthly gathering of the lords of Polihex, and everything needed to be presentable since tonight it was their house that would host it.

"Feeling better, Jazz?" The kind mech asked and Jazz rewarded him with a small smile.

"Yup." Jazz chirped and fought back a flinch when the mech placed a comforting hand on his helm. All of the servants were very nice to each other, helping one another. Especially to the younger ones, trying to shield them as much as they can from everything. Sadly, it rarely worked.

"I heard what happened." The servant said more quietly, and looked around to make sure they were still alone. Of course, everyone in the house knew it. After all, the First Heir liked his punishments with an audience. "How is your friend?"

"He's…" Jazz struggled for a word, but there was none that would fit how exactly Prowl was, "He's going to be okay." The youngling finally settled for that.

"I'm glad to hear that." That voice had both Jazz and the friendly servant jump in fright, making Jazz drop the spoon he was cleaning, as they looked towards the huge double doors, where the First Heir stood with all of his glory. His sensor wings, that were far sharper and edgier then the soft and round ones like Prowl's, or any other Praxian type for that matter, were held casually.

"My Lord." The servant was quick to say, bowing his helm. Jazz quickly crouched down to get the fallen spoon and stood up with some difficulty just as the Lord shooed away the other servant to do his duties. Jazz refused to look at him, all of his energy focused on trying to still the tremors of his frame.

"So, that Praxian friend of yours." The young lord sat on one of the chairs and took a goodie to gnabble on. "The medic said he'll be fine in a few orns. Who knew sensor wings could be so sensitive." He said it like it was the most casual thing the world and it had nothing to do with the fact that he had nearly ripped them off a few orns ago.

Instead, Jazz's optics dared to travel to the mech, looking at his own wings, refusing to look at the goodie the mech was eating and remind himself how starved he was, trying to banish the echo of Prowl's screams as they meshed with his own.

Lord Markus followed his line of sight and feigned interest, "Oh my wings? Nah, they are just decorative."

Jazz didn't say anything, knowing very well not to speak unless there was a question directed at him. There was a long, tense silence between then as the youngling worked and the Lord watched him. One of the reason Jazz feared him was because the mech liked to spend time with the youngling servants in this house. They feared him the most when he wanted to play violent games with them, that always involved a youngling or sparkling being sent to the medics afterward.

"You know the rules of this house, Jazz." The lord said almost bored, "I had to punish you both. And it's not as bad as it looks, I held back. After all, we don't want another incident like the one with Nymph."

Jazz's entire frame froze and he dropped yet again another spoon. However this time the echo of it hitting the floor was deafening and Jazz didn't bend down to pick it up.

"Still a sore theme, huh?" Lord Markus asked, but he already knew the answer to it. "Don't worry, I won't let anything like that to happen ever again." Jazz was looking down, optics shuttered and refusing to look at the Lord.

Nymph… something inside his spark tore at the mention of that name. The image of him clutching her lifeless body, just as small and fragile as his, as warm energon kept oozing slowly, draining the remaining life of his best friend away. Jazz didn't have siblings. But before Prowl, there was Nymph – a sweet femme who always smiled, even in the direst of situations.

She was here in this house even before Jazz, and it was she who had taught Jazz that life is worth living, no matter how horrible it may seem, because it was simply too short. Just as hers has been. Lord Markus had been in a particularly bad mood that orn and when Jazz had done something that would result in his wrath, Nymph had hid him away and took the punishment for him.

Yet, no one expected the Lord to get so carried away in his wrath to actually kill the youngling. After all, they were a helping hand in the house, a future investment. And she had died. Instead of Jazz.

"Jazz." The youngling was trembling now as it looked fearfully at his Lord, "Would you like to take a goodie for yourself and your friend, hmm?" The smile seemed sweet. Now if only the optics weren't mocking and teasing.

Jazz wasn't falling for that trap again. Once, when he was new here he had accepted the Lord's "kindness". However, in the exact moment Markus's sire and Lord of the entire House had walked in, demanding why a slave was eating their food. Markus had said nothing about offering the goodie and actually denied allowing Jazz to eat. That had resulted in one of his first punishments and the hungriest week of his life.

Jazz felt his optics grow wet, as coolant threatened to fall. Anger burned in his chest. He hated this mech. He hated him so much it hurt to even breathe the same air with him.

"You two must be so hungry." The lord kept on, idly, playing with another goodie in the set, as if he didn't know how true that statement was, "No one would notice if a goodie or two went missing."

"N-no, thank you master." Jazz whispered and knelt down to pick up the fallen spoon, but a searing pain in his leg made him fall on his little aft in his crouched position. The mech had kicked him so hard that he had crushed his entire hip joint. It was a miracle Ratchet was able to fix it with no permanent damage, otherwise they would've probably sold him.

Suddenly, Jazz felt two huge clawed hands to his shoulders and lift him up gently. Confused, he looked at Lord Markus, resenting the touch, resisting the urge to run and flee. The Lord just looked at him, head cocked to one side, staring at Jazz as if he was some sort of a painting on display, a goodie for his taking. And the scary thing is, that Jazz was all of those things.

"Your friend can't get energon if he doesn't work." Lord Markus said. Which was hypocritical and contradicting to its very core. How did they expect Prowl (and Jazz for that matter) to work, when the very same house beat them to scrap. "I cover his shifts currently." Jazz answered quietly, "He should be allowed his energon if his chores are completed."

"Have I not been gracious enough to grant you two energon even when I said you don't deserve it?" His optics become colder and Jazz felt the hold on his shoulder become a grip, "If it weren't for the medic's orders, you two wouldn't be getting any energon."

'Why don't you just kill us already!' Jazz mind wanted to shout out at him. Worse, Jazz's optics traveled to the knife on the table and more than one image popped in his head how he stabbed that very same knife into this mechs spark for every blow he had delivered to him and his friends. The thought scared him.

"I like having you round, Jazz." The grip on his shoulders vanished and Jazz realized he had been holding his breath, "You're not like the other younglings." He watched as the mech walked towards the exit of the room, and turned to look at him. Jazz was terrified of that look, "I honestly anticipate the orn you reach your adult up-grades."

It took him over 10 breems after that to shake his helm clear before returning to his work, grateful for the quiet in the room and the fact that there was no one to hear his quiet little cries. It was later, much, much later that night when Jazz crawled his way back to the barracks of the servants. They became gloomier with each passing orn.

Nearly all were in recharge. Jazz wasn't surprised, with how exhausting every orn was. Jazz walked to the nest-like bed he shared with Prowl. The bigger youngling was lying on his front, letting his tender wings to heal. Jazz just stopped before the bed-like nest and felt someone watching his back. He tilted his helm back, dim visor looking at the orange optics of Broka, curled on his own crummy berth and glaring at Jazz.

Not one to get intimidated easily, and not in the mood for Broka's antics, Jazz snapped, "What?"

"I got punished because of you." Broka growled quietly, not to wake up the other slaves.

Jazz slumped and looked over at the berth, trying to decide how to get on it without jostling Prowl too much, "You were the one who cheated and threw the rock. Ya were the one to scream and attract the attention of the guard." Jazz pressed a little hand to his face as a sudden wave of vertigo hit him and he leaned on the sorry excuse of a berth. They would get their energon in the morning.

"I hate you." The tiny youngling heard Broka's voice croak and used what little strength he had to climb on the berth next to Prowl, going to the inside, putting himself between Prowl and the wall. He didn't lay down yet, instead leaned on the cold wall to look at the bully.

"I know." Jazz whispered. "She was my friend too y'know."

Broka glared, anger and pain so obvious on his young face, "And she died because of you. And I will never forgive you for it. Not when she could've been alive still."

"And do you think she would've been happy to hear what ya say?" Jazz cocked his helm to the side, "The see that ya do?"

"She would be ashamed that you replaced her so easily with that sorry excuse of a Praxian! Some friend you are!"

"Yup, that's me." Jazz replied quietly, "The bastard-child. Yet she was still my best friend, and ya can't let that go, can ya?"

Broka felt wetness on his optics and gave Jazz a look that was filled with nothing but hate, "You should've died that orn. Not her. Do you think that if you copy what she did to you, saving Prowl's sorry aft, you would redeem yourself?"

Jazz frowned, too exhausted to have this conversation "You loved her. I know that. I loved her too—"

"Frag off Jazz! Everyone knows she died because of you!"

"I know."

Broka frowned at the way Jazz said that. He focused on Jazz's face and didn't like his look; how that visor was dim enough to leave heavy shadows over the small youngling's face.

There was a dark undercurrent of Jazz's words, "And there isn't an orn Ah don't resent myself for livin' when she's dead. It's mah fault she died, not denying that. But I keep on living – keep helping the other younglings, even you, ya sorry piece of slag, alive and somewhat happy. Because that's what she would've wanted from me. Because, otherwise, her death would mean nothing. But I promise you Broka, if Prowl gets hurt because of you one more time, I'll kill you. I will."

Jazz didn't wait for a response and laid down next to Prowl, trying to stop the tears that threatened to fall. It hurt. Broka's words hurt so much because they were nothing but the truth. He sniffed through his vents as little tears stained his cheeks. He looked at Prowl's offline face, how peaceful he looked, and carefully pressed closer to him, so that he could hide his face in the crook of neck, under Prowl's chin, seeking safety. Recharge took him almost instantly.

Broka huffed hot air from his vents and shifted on the cold berth when he felt optics on him. Turning his helm in the direction of Jazz's berth, he expected to see the tiny youngling with some smart comeback. Instead, he was faced with the yellow-white optics of Prowl. There as something chilling in those optics.

Broka didn't like Jazz because it was his fault that Nymph had died. But he didn't like Prowl because… he scared him.

"What?" Broka snapped, uneasy by that intense stare.

Prowl said nothing, instead his optics just narrowed, before they powered down completely as well.


	4. Younglings

Ironhide looked down from where he was fixing one of the windows in the main kitchen when he heard laughter. Chromia was standing next to the sink, servos buried in solvent water as she washed the cubes and pantry from the morning breakfast, humming softly. Outside, acid rain softly fell on the ground. But the crystals in these lands were sturdy, adapted to adequately survive the often falling acid rains.

He looked back, were the huge heat generator that warmed half of the household stood in the far corner, and two younglings played in front of it on a crummy rag on the ground.

"I wanna be th'sire!" Jazz said, hugging a hand-made doll close to his chest as he pouted at Prowl.

"You're the smaller one." Prowl reasoned, "That means I should be the sire and you, the carrier."

"That's stupid." Jazz said, "Size doesn't matter!"

Ironhide couldn't stop the chuckle at hearing that as he climbed down the ladder and went next to Chromia, "Ya made 'em a doll, eh?"

"I did." She said smugly without looking up from her work. "They needed something to remind them that they are younglings still." She murmured the last part.

Ironhide just went to sit on a chair, resting his aching support struts as he regarded her answer with a hum. ~Is it 'cuz of their punishment?~

Irritation flickered over the bond, showing just how displeased Chromia was about that incident, ~The mechs in the House forget that these are children they are dealing with.~

~They're not as fragile as ya made 'em seem. Kids are more sturdy than ya think.~

The feeling of irritation increased this time coupled with anger, but there was so much sadness and longing, ~I heard the conversation between Jazz and Broka last week. They thought everyone was asleep. Ironhide, the things those two younglings said…I just wanted to remind them they are young.~

Worry flooded the link as her optics locked with his, ~No youngling should have to ever say that, let alone feel it. Broka is becoming more and more aggressive, he wasn't like that when he came here; Jazz used to be this sweet little bitlet that I couldn't keep my servos off. Now he flinches every time I touch him. And Prowl… that child was already introverted when he came here, but now it has gotten so much worse to the point where it worries me. I think he's becoming aggressive like Broka, just hiding it better. And _don't_ get me started on the other younglings…~

Ironhide said nothing. Instead he sent all the support and love he could muster though the bond. He didn't want Chromia so attached to the younglings, not when the risk of getting one sold or worse, killed, was always too high. He knew she longed for a bitlet of their own, and so did he, but neither were strong enough to witness their own brood subjected to the abuse the rest of the children here were under every orn.

His train of thought got stalled when the younglings got too noisy.

"Chromia!" Jazz stood up on his little pedes, "Tell Prowler here that size doesn't matter for ya to be a carrier!"

"It's logical!" Prowl protested. He was the one clutching the doll this time.

A fond smile came over Chromia's face plates as she walked over to the two younglings, "What are you two playing?"

"House." Prowl replied, "And neither of us wants to be the carrier."

"Cuz I'm not weak!" Jazz said, pout firmly in place.

"So that makes me weak?" Prowl shot back, wings twitching.

Jazz deflated, "Well, no but—"

Chromia chuckled, "Now, now. I don't see what the problem is when you can always trade. In this turn of the game, let's say Jazz will be the carrier, and Prowl the sire. Then next time it'll be the other way around, so it's fair." She smiled at the two younglings. That was perhaps one of the rare times they acted their age; one of the few times where they don't need to be grown up, or sad, or hurt. They were allowed to be the children they were at spark.

"I like that plan." Prowl gave a tiny smile and looked at Jazz, waiting to see his decision.

"I guess that's fair…"

Chromia's smile widened, "But Jazz is right. Size isn't a factor, Prowl. Who gets sparked is a complete random unless you're trying to intentionally do it."

"Does that mean 'Hide can carry too?" Jazz asked curiously.

"Yes. But being carrier is more fun than you give it credit for. For instance, you get to be pampered and fussed over, and you get to feel the sparkling first."

"But... he's huge!" Jazz exclaimed and looked at the mech curiously.

"Hey! Ah can be a good carrier, mind Ah tell ya!" Ironhide replied.

"Of course you will be, love." Chromia sent over the bond just how happy the thought of a sparkling made her feel, along with the sense of regret that neither would probably have the chance. "But Jazz, don't be contradicting. You just said size doesn't matter, so don't be surprised that Ironhide can carry."

Jazz nodded to himself, mind made up, "Kay, so I'll be carrier first, and then you?" He looked expectantly at Prowl, however there was a distant look on his face. Jazz knew that look, it was the one when Prowl was thinking hard on something, and it never was a good thing.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Jazz asked, "Unless ya wanna be the carrier first...?"

"No, not that." Prowl shook his helm lightly, optics focused on the make-shift doll he was holding, "This is... nice." Then lifted his gaze up to Jazz, "I like playing pretend. I never had a friend to play with before."

"Yeah," Jazz smiled, "But you have one now! And it's awesome. We can be anything. I'm the Lord of kingdom far away, where everyone is happy!"

Prowl nodded, wing perking up slightly, "In my kingdom there are no slaves."

"In mine too!" Jazz added, excited. "And instead of credits the tax will be home-made goodies!"

It felt so good to not care. To forget where they were. What they were.

"That's not tax." Prowl looked at Jazz curiously.

"Well, in my kingdom it is!"

Chromia couldn't help but smile at the imagination only a youngling could have. Just hearing them talk made her spark feel content. She felt amusement slip from Ironhide's side of the bond and looked towards the door, where a couple of more younglings and sparklings were peaking through, asking to join the game. Jazz of course, was enthusiastic about it while Prowl shied away, but luckily he had Jazz next to him to make him feel at ease. In the end, it turned into a big game where Prowl and Jazz were the creators and the other younglings and sparklings were their creations. The small kitchen felt warm with the laughter filling it.

"Hey Broka, come and join us!"

Jazz's gaze lifted up to look at the lone youngling at the edge of the door. Broka had one hand pressed gently against it, the other clenched in a fist. He was looking at Jazz, expression unreadable. The room suddenly quietened, watching for a reaction. Would there be another fight? Even Ironhide and Chromia stood at the ready to intervene if something happened.

In the end, Broka only asked one thing: "... What did you call the doll?"

The room was silent when Jazz answered calmly, "Nymph."

Broka's face became pained and he simply turned around and left. Prowl looked at Jazz after the bigger youngling retreated and couldn't read his expression.

"Jazz?" Prowl asked.

"...The thing 'bout pretend, Prowler?" Jazz started quietly, "In the end, it is still just _pretend_." He looked down at the doll he had named Nymph. Jazz felt tears return to his optics as the other younglings muttered between themselves uncomfortably and was glad for his visor.

And suddenly, Coco, the youngest sparkling they had to date said, breaking the awful stillness, "An' she grew up to be a beautiful princess!"

Jazz blinked his blurry optics, completely surprised at that little comment. "What?"

"And she was very happy!" Another youngling added.

"And loved!" Piped in someone else.

"She'll be the most awesome princess in the kingdom!"

"Of course she will." Prowl spoke, surprising everyone. "After all, Jazz is her creator. It's not logical for her not to be."

And he said it so calmly, with such certainty, that it seemed almost absurd for someone to correct him. In fact, he said it in such a manner that Jazz almost believed him. The visored youngling smiled gently, wistfully.

"Yeah... she would've made an amazing femme."

It was much later that orn; some of the younglings were doing their evening chores, while others had retreated to rest. Jazz was part of the second group, recharging tiredly curled up in their little bed. However Prowl wasn't there. And neither was Broka.

"Why do you keep doing that?"

Broka looked up from scrubbing the corridor floor to the only Praxian slave the house had. Prowl's gaze was unreadable as always, optics burning in their cold yellow light.

Broka glared, "Cuz it's my job to clean this corridor, idiot. I thought you were the smart one."

Prowl's wings gave a sharp twitch, "I meant, why do you keep bringing up that femme up?"

The reaction was instintaious. Broka stood up, trying to loom the Praxian, but failed, "First, because it's his fault that she is dead. He deserves it. And second, it's none of your stupid business, Praxian!"

"I did not know her and Jazz refuses to speak about her, but it is clear she means a great deal to him. And he hurts. So I'm asking you, stop hurting Jazz or I will hurt you back." Prowl said. And the words sounded out of place form the mouth of someone so young.

"Funny thing to say from a youngling who still cowards behind Jazz. Go ahead." Broka motioned with his hand, "You can't do nothing that I haven't already experienced." He had been beaten, and whipped and tormented. There was nothing Prowl could do that would hurt him more.

"...That." Prowl said, "That is the thing I don't understand about you. You are beaten and trashed the same way as us, yet you insist on being a bully even when you endure the same harshness."

"Pretty big words, for a youngling who likes to play with dolls." Broka glared.

"Because I am a youngling still."

"No Prowl, you are not." The non praxian said gravely, "None of us are."

Prowl didn't say anything, just watched as the youngling returned to the floor to resume his cleaning. "Things aren't simply black and white like you. We weren't given the choice of staying younglings or grow up – no matter how hard Jazz may try to fight this and ignore our reality. There are no younglings here. Only mechs in different frames."

Prowl was silent as he studied the mechling in front of him before he spoke, "Perhaps, that is the one thing you and I agree on. However, I will not forgive you for causing Jazz pain."

"I don't want your forgiveness Praxian." Broka scrubbed harder.

"But you do not want my wrath either."

With that, Prowl turned around and left, leaving the other youngling alone with no one to hear his little cries. The Praxian returned to the barracks, climbing on the crummy make-shift berth next to Jazz and studied his tired face-plates before pressing close. And before Prowl fell into recharge, he felt a hand pull him close.


End file.
